Beast: Great Bloodlines Converge (2 page)

I am War
Death follows where I have traveled
I am the clash of arrows and shields beyond a castle
I am the warrior beside another
I am the sword of surrender
I sit beside a fallen comrade, my brother
I am a sheath now empty
I am the weapon held at hand before he passed on
I am War

~ Epitaph on the crypt of Sir Bastian de Russe a.k.a. “Beast”

Year of Our Lord 1431

The Month of May

Rouen, France

It smelled like rot.

Rot, bodies, men who were in the throes of the last of their lives, with nothing left to live for and nothing to give. It smelled of all things surrendered, of honor destroyed, and of defeat. Whenever he smelled this scent, that rotten, moist scent that seemed to bleed from the very walls, it always smelled of death to him. It smelled of hopelessness.

The tower was part of Rouen Castle, a massive and rambling structure that was the predominant feature of the sprawling, dirty town of Rouen. This particular tower had been just another tower housing prisoners from the ongoing wars between France and England, although this particular castle belonged to the English as their stronghold. Therefore, the prisoners were French, but this tower held one special prisoner in particular. It had for six months. The three-storied tower had never really had a name before that time but now it had a very identifying name:
Tour de la Pucelle.

Tower of the Maid.

The knight stood just inside the entry to the tower, gazing at the semi-spiral staircase that hugged the wall to his right, leading to the floors above. She was up there and he could feel a palpable sense of dread in his heart. He didn’t want to be here yet he couldn’t stay away. He had been there when the English had paid the Burgundians for their very special prisoner,
Jehanne la Pucelle
. And it was he, at the Duke of Bedford’s instruction, who had ultimately taken the rather short, skinny woman dressed in rags into custody. In fact, as he’d gotten a good look at her, he could hardly believe this was the same woman who had been leading the dauphin’s men against the English and largely succeeding. She was small and thin, and looked like a boy with her short-cropped hair. But behind those dark eyes were the heart, mind, and soul of a lion.

He had seen her roar. He’d spent the past six months watching her roar, watching this illiterate farm girl debate religion with men who considered themselves highly educated and highly clever. She had roared, for certain, but her roar had taken the shape of a brilliant statement or a calm debate that had left the arrogant clergy speechless. The big knight, the biggest and most powerful knight in the stable of the man who hated the Maid the most, the Duke of Bedford, had been at every proceeding, watching these religious fools try to tear down the young woman who had steadfastly stood by her statement that God spoke to her through St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Mary. She had never wavered, not once, even when men who thought they knew better than she did tried to trap her. But they never could trap the lion.

So they’d shamed her, tormented her, illegally denied her what the law said was her right. The knight knew because he had stood by and watched it all, losing more respect for his liege by the day. Bedford was crafty. God, the man was crafty, and he had an unnatural hatred for the Maid. The mind games, the deceit, went on for months and in the end, the ecclesiastical court coerced the Maid into signing a confession in exchange for life in prison, but that wasn’t good enough for Bedford. He wanted the witch dead. But there was a problem with that wish.

The knight, who had been Bedford’s right hand through all of his campaign for Henry VI’s rights in France, had begun to show distinct signs of sympathy towards the Maid. Every man in the English army was afraid of this knight, the man called the Beast, up to and including Bedford. Sir Bastian de Russe had virtually kept England’s army going against the onslaught from the Maid and her supporters, so it wouldn’t do well to anger de Russe or even let him know that you were thinking anything other than kind thoughts about him. De Russe had the power to make it so one no longer existed. He’d been known to wipe out entire families that displeased him. Therefore, it was unwise to enrage the man. He would simply quash you.

But de Russe had shown definite symptoms of compassion towards the Maid over the past few months, even going so far as to kill three guards accused of attempting to rape her. One of the conditions of her confession had been to resume wearing women’s clothing in prison. Wearing men’s clothing was an offense to God and she had avoided the heresy charge by agreeing to wear women’s clothing (and no longer the chain mail or clothing she wore in battle against the English). Bedford knew the only solution to his troubles would be to get the woman back into men’s clothing. He could then declare she had gone back on her word. It would negate her signed confession. She would be charged with heresy, condemned to die, and his problem would be solved.

It was not so easy to do that, however, with de Russe seeing to it that the Maid was fairly treated. Bedford had even asked him, once, why he was ensuring the enemy’s fair treatment and de Russe had given him such a look that Bedford had gone off, running. They all wanted the Maid dead except for de Russe. He was not only fair to her, he was even kind, which was completely out of his character. The more time passed, the more Bedford was convinced the Maid had either seduced him or bewitched him. In either case, he needed to get de Russe away from the woman. As the middle of the month of May drew near, Bedford had a plan.

Bedford’s wife, the Lady Anne, had been at Rouen but was slated to return to England, so Bedford assigned de Russe to escort his lady wife to Calais so she could return home. De Russe did his duty and escorted the wife to Calais, but while he was gone, Bedford had the soldiers guarding the Maid take away her feminine clothing and replace it with men’s hose and tunic. Having nothing else to wear despite her protests, the Maid donned the clothing and was immediately declared a relapsed heretic by reneging on her confession. Death by burning was scheduled and Bedford had his final victory.

All these thoughts were rolling through de Russe’s mind as he stood in the doorway of the tower, looking at the guards at the base of the stairs, guards who had forced a young girl into signing her own death warrant. Bedford had been unapologetic when he had told de Russe of the turn of events and de Russe, in his normal style, accepted Bedford’s words without argument. He wasn’t in the habit of disputing his liege, even if the man was a betrayer and a fool. Sentence had been passed by the ecclesiastical court and there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was visit the Maid and beg her forgiveness for not having been at Rouen to prevent Bedford from carrying out his terrible scheme. Anything more than that and he might look like a traitor, something he did not want to do. Even de Russe had his limits.

The guards at the base of the stairs refused to look at him. In fact, when they saw de Russe appear, they all moved well away from him, all of them armed, refusing to meet the man’s eye. They all knew that the Maid had somehow seduced him and they feared the devil in the man, so they gathered as far away as they could from him as he stood there.

“Give me the key,” de Russe commanded in his cold, raspy voice.

One of the guards produced a key and reluctantly handed it to him. Then he scooted back over to his companions, away from the Beast. Key in hand, de Russe took the steps two at a time, making his way to the second floor.

There was one chamber on this level. A massive oak and iron door was in place with a small, bolted slot in it to pass food through. Putting the key in the elaborate iron lock, he turned the key, shifted the bolt, and pulled it back. Then he yanked on the door to open it. The panel had always been known to stick.

It was sunset and the colors from the west were creating prisms of light on the wall to his right. The chamber, normally dull and cold, was actually rather well lit. His gaze moved across the straw on the floor, the crude bucket used for a toilet, and a small three-legged stool next to it. He could smell the urine from the bucket and the general filth and dampness from the straw, which told him it hadn’t been changed since he’d left on his errand with Lady Anne two weeks ago. When he was in charge, it was changed daily.

As his gaze moved across the chamber with its stone walls and dirty floor, it finally came to rest on the Maid as she sat on her rope and wood bed, the one she was chained to every night. Or, at least she had been until de Russe had put a stop to that practice. He suspected the practice had resumed during his absence. The Maid was looking at him, her narrow face pale and her dark eyes sunken. But she smiled at him when their eyes met, her yellowed teeth revealed.

“De Russe,” she said softly. “Vous êtes de retour.”
You have returned
.

De Russe nodded his head, entering the chamber. “I have,” he replied in French. “I have come to see how you have fared during my absence.”

The Maid’s smile faded. “I am sure you have heard of my troubles,” she said quietly, weakly. The woman had little strength these days in great contrast to the robust little soldier they had known. “It will not be long now. Tomorrow, isn’t it?”

De Russe stood there, looking at her, before sighing faintly. He ignored her question. “I have heard of your troubles,” he said. “But I was told that your gowns were taken from you and you were given male clothing to wear. You were forced to break your promise and recant your confession because of it. Is this true?”

The Maid lowered her gaze. “Who has told you this?”

De Russe could see she was being evasive. “One of my men who remained behind,” he said. “Bedford removed him from guarding you and he was told that another guard, a man instructed by Bedford no less, removed your female clothes and provided you with only male clothing to wear, male clothing you swore off under penalty of death.”

The Maid shrugged. “It does not matter,” she said. “It is done.”

“If this is true, then you were trapped. I will summon the Pope personally to intervene.”

The Maid shook her head, shushing him. She didn’t want to discuss it, which aggravated him. Either she was resigned to her fate or fearful of what more they could do to her, or even to de Russe since his sympathies toward her were an open secret. Whatever the reason, she cut him off from further discussing the subject. Frustrated, de Russe took a few more steps into the room, looking around at the filth.

“And this,” he grumbled. “Have they not cleaned this out for you? I have warned them against treating you like an animal.”

The Maid shushed him quietly. “Come here
,
ma bête
,” she said. “Come and sit. I must speak with you.”

De Russe looked at her, not at all liking her words or her tone. He was sure she was going to say something he did not want to hear.

“You need not say anything to me,” he said quietly. “But there is something I must say to you.”

The Maid lifted her dark, slightly arched eyebrows. “What is that?”

He looked at her, really looked at her. His eyes, the color of the sky on a hot summer day, were intense.

“I have been thinking of this for some time,” he asked quietly. “Your previous escape attempts… I have come to the conclusion that I should not have stopped you.”

The Maid gave him a half-grin. “You did what you were supposed to do,” she said, some irony in her statement. “As did I.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment as if hesitant to say what he was thinking. “If you wanted to run away now, I would not stop you.”

The Maid was surprised. “That is kind of you, but where would I go?” she asked. “There is no longer anyone to help me, no one to run to. Those days are gone. Other than you, I fear there is no longer anyone I can trust.”

“You still have supporters,” he insisted. “I know, for I have fought against them. If I were to turn my back and allow you to run to them….”

The Maid shook her head, cutting him off. “De Russe, your complicity would be discovered and then you would burn along with me. Nay, my friend, it is foolish. I am grateful for your offer, but it is futile. No more escape attempts, no more thoughts of running away. That is over. My time has come and I am not afraid to die. In fact, that is what I must speak with you about.”

De Russe was becoming increasingly disturbed. He moved away from her, back to the door that was still open. He shut it so that the guards with their big ears down below would not hear anything, guards who would report back to Bedford. But once he shut the door, he continued to stand there, his hand on the panel, his mind drifting to Bedford and the Burgundians, and everyone else who had betrayed this young woman. True, the Maid had led the charge against the English but de Russe was more and more convinced that she’d had divine guidance.

A simple woman, an illiterate farm girl, could not have done what she had done single-handedly. There had to be more to it, perhaps something glorious and blessed. But the clergy and the English, those who proclaimed to believe in God, failed to see the Maid’s divine inspiration. They thought she was mad, or worse, and had gone to great lengths to destroy her. The more he pondered the coercion he had been a party to, the more disgusted he became.

“I did not come to France to kill a girl barely on the cusp of womanhood,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I did not come here to watch the English manipulate the clergy until they had no choice but to sentence you to death. What my liege has done, what they have
all
done, is underhanded and deceitful. Never were you given a fair chance, in anything. Your death is the result of vanity and nothing more.”

The Maid was watching him closely. “Whose vanity?”